


So Please Shower Me with Your Love

by wynnesome



Series: Go Bing-Or Go Home [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Sassy Steve Rogers, Shower Sex, Showers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-06 03:10:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17337482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wynnesome/pseuds/wynnesome
Summary: Steve had learned many modern idioms in his few years out of the ice. Passing up the opportunity to put this one to use in the interests of some sexy shower fun would have been -- nearly criminal.





	So Please Shower Me with Your Love

**Author's Note:**

> **Written for the S2 square on my Stony Bingo card, “Kink: Bath/Shower Sex.”**
> 
> I wrote the draft of this in one night, falling into one of my fanciful zones where I’m playing with the sounds and rhythms of the words as much as the meanings. From there, I did edit a lot, and my goal was to try and maintain a natural-feeling flow to the narrative, while working in all those rhythms and rhymes.
> 
> I don’t feel that I solidly hit that mark or that it’s my best piece of writing. I think it’s somewhat uneven and falls in and out of the flow I was aiming for. But it’s an idea brought into being that I wanted to let stand. As such, it's unbeta-ed, to spare anyone the expectation of helping dig me out of this one. :P
> 
> That said, I _am_ pleased to have written something that a) didn’t take me months to complete, b) falls into that 1-5k “short fic” zone I’ve been hunting for, and c) has a sex scene that is _just sex_ without involving carefully structured points of conversation or plot where I corner myself into writing in painstaking levels of detail. Hooray for steps toward personal writing goals!
> 
>  **Canon notes:** Not that this fic has any overt canonical ties anyway, but I did envision it as being early-ish 616, at a point with Steve not too many years out of the ice, so there could still be some bit of novelty to the idea of him learning and using modern slang and idioms. I also wanted Steve comfortable in his awareness that Tony is Iron Man, due to having imagery in mind where he thinks about Tony both in and out of the armor.
> 
> So that meant sometime past the Molecule Man reveal in Avengers #216. Ok, sure, sounds good. But then I found out that that time period promptly runs right into Avengers #224, where Tony is dating Jan and Steve is ripping holes in him for it, and from there, it’s not long before Tony is falling back into the bottle for the second Iron Man drinking arc. Writing around 616 canon still feels really difficult!
> 
> But, given that comics time gets nebulous anyway, I’m content with stretching things to allow some time for Steve and Tony to establish a relationship post-Molecule Man, pre-second drinking arc. And from there, either Tony/Jan didn’t happen, OR, better yet, I happily head-canon that that the reason Steve was so hard on Tony about dating Jan was because clearly, the teammate who doesn’t know Tony’s dual identity and isn’t Steve couldn’t be nearly as right for him as the teammate who does and is. I’m not gonna argue with Steve on that one. :D

Steve shared Tony's shower for the first time the morning after the night he’d shared his bed for the first time.

When he saw the sheer number and variety of bath products, every single bottle that wasn't completely opaque showing far enough from full that it was obvious these were all incurring use, he almost called their whole involvement off as a case of mismatched expectations.

Was Tony catering to this many different partners? Was Steve just another in a long line? They'd been dancing around each other for some time, obvious in their appreciative glances, their too-close stances, their perfectly incidental touches, obvious in the frequent little tugs, the measurements of tension, on strings that ran both ways.  

Would Tony have gone to so much trouble for a one-night stand, a casual physical arrangement? Was he so calculating to have known the only way he'd have Steve was to lull him to believe that they were laying a foundation for something sturdy, longer-lived?

Could he care so little for his friend and their team? Could he be so blithe as to write off the fallout or bank on it buried by shame, that he'd notch his bedpost with the shield, then bounce both it and Steve back out his bedroom door?

Steve might buy it of the Stark he saw in scandal mags, the gossip rags -- be they broadcast or in print, they were hard to avoid, especially when, he was a little bashful to admit, his attention so easily snapped to any mention or glimpse of Tony. There was no question, no denying, and in his mind, he wasn't even trying, that the man, in name or likeness, as in person, turned his head.

But the portrait the media painted, in garishly edited sight-and-sound-bites, wasn't the same one Steve did.

Himself, he worked in mediums that mixed and changed with the days: watercolors rippling in soft, crystal depths for his eyes; bold, brash acrylics for the armor's gloss and shine; and oils, with their pungency, for building up rich subtleties in layers, the patina of the complicated man he’d come to know.

In truth, he didn’t think he’d read it wrong, or that Tony had misused or played him false in any way. But all those half-done bottles spread before him, after being wholly undone, spent and spread all through the sheets, had thrown him off, left him unsettled, ill at ease.

He’d been sleepy-sated smiling, but molasses-silky silence had turned sulky, terse and skittish. Steve could feel it, and he knew Tony had noticed. But no pressure came to bear except the perfectly steamed water; Tony hadn’t pushed at all, had given space. He’d remained the same considerate, generous lover -- or was he just accustomed to these awkward afters?

Either way, he hadn't questioned when Steve had washed quickly, with something a little too cloying, from the bottle closest at hand, nor when Steve had cited a just-recalled training as cause to make haste in his exit.

"You're such a bad influence, Tony, you make me forget everything except you," Steve had done his best to joke. It was good he hadn't fallen as flat on the shower floor.

He could tell Tony saw right through; he’d patted Steve’s damp, bare shoulder with a stingy palm, the same creaky lift to his elbow and wrist as his lips, weak, like he’d been watered down when he’d needed to be oiled. Steve could feel the strain where he’d seen Tony’s unsullied smile, mark the stiffness where he’d known his unstinting touch.

And still, it had surprised him when there was no sizzle, no steam hissing up, the contact, even stilted, so electric to his nerves.  

"That's good, Cap, glad I could help get your mind off of work for a while, you need it,” was all Tony’d said, and had let Steve see himself out.

He'd minimized the lie by asking Thor for a spar after all; let his muscles lead and his reflexes parry, while his mind had mulled and unmuddled itself.

And with that, gathered his resolve to confess, apologize and explain the mess he’d snarled and tangled, in his head and two more points knotted up down a rope through his middle.

But when he’d marched out on his mission, Tony hadn’t been around that afternoon, the evening, night, nor till the next, past dinnertime. The wait of a day had felt more like a week, and -- no, it was foolish to think that Tony was avoiding him, just his own insecurity rearing its head, don’t overreact -- till he’d found out later, the truth of his instinct, and the sheer luck by which he’d caught Tony’s return from a dawn to sunset string of business meetings.

How dispirited his (once? still? he hoped) lover had looked, combing fingers through his hair and working loose his collar and tie, with slowness in his step and dullness in his eyes, and Steve had pushed a plate of Jarvis’s dinner leftovers at him in payment for, “I really need to talk to you.”

“Can it wait?”

“I suppose, but please, I’d really rather not.”

And after he'd said his piece and they'd made theirs, Tony had told him the meaning hidden in "we need to talk," and how he'd crumpled at the "please" no matter what, and how Steve had him for the taking, but he'd thought sure he was leaving, and weren't they a couple of fools, he’d said with a painful laugh, both afraid what the other had wanted was less a commitment, and thank God for one of them having the balls to communicate.

"You're a braver man than I, Steve," he’d declared, then hesitated, “just… never let me bring you down. I can’t… a bad influence is the last thing I can stand to be.”

And they'd hugged before kissing, because although this was, mmmm, oh, yes, about sex, that wasn’t by far the only thing, and foremost, right then, had been reassurance and care, in murmuring voices and the woodsy smell of Tony's hair, the weave of his dress shirt, day-long-wrinkled and warmed, and his belt buckle digging a hole in Steve's hip, sundry tokens of home.

With a not-quite-smooth press of past-five-o’clock cheeks and a whisk-brush of mustache, they’d swayed, in a rhythm out of sync with the thump of their hearts, in small ongoing movements. They’d made no excuses to stay close and soak up the structural solids of hands to broad backs, ribs, and spines, laced together in comforting dovetails, flush-fit tongues and grooves sliding easy when mouths finally joined, lapped, aligned.

Time unknown had elapsed; when they’d let go to breathe, Tony’s eyes had been wide, standing water under smudge-stick charcoal lashes, cheeks rouged with a cadmium shine, and his face luminous, stripped of masks. And the crass, flashy man from the tabloids was nowhere in sight, too busy out dazzling some dewy-eyed starlet or diamond-tipped socialite.

**______**

Once they'd showered together a few times more, Steve had learned it was all Tony diminishing the levels in those expensive-looking bottles. He selected his aromas like another kind of armor, like his bland to zesty ties: on a hedonistic whim, or as a statement for the day, from political seduction to corporate power play.

Steve, who had grown up on drugstore thrift and then army PX, came to know scents like colors: sandalwood, sage, eucalyptus, melon, mint, lilac, lavender, and a multitude of others.

He ventured to experiment, but found he preferred the more plain; not sweet, but astringence or spice, a hint, only. The less he could smell on himself, the less in the way of enjoying every exotic essence embellishing Tony’s.

The one thing he missed, among cremes and conditioners, exfoliants, rinses and scrubs, was the simplicity of a bar of soap. Call him old-fashioned (after all, he was), but don't say he hadn't been willing to try. Tony always made him feel adventurous.

Tony did call him many things, with a sparkle, smirk, wink, or a sigh, but was always willing to indulge, and in so many words to equal the one, it all added up to love.

So when Steve came home with Irish Spring and Ivory, Tony countered with bay rum and bergamot. Inevitable to amass numerous varieties, nearly as many bars and cakes as bottles bought, but who was counting?

No one, and both. The two of them were solutions to the same system of equations, Tony had told him, and Steve had remembered. Sometimes he saw how they were math, especially in battle, multiplied by one another, exponential. Then at times their science was softer, fuzzy logic nestled into more pliant shapes, and still raising each other to higher powers.

**______**

Steve had learned many modern idioms in his few years out of the ice. It had evolved into entertainment, in addition to ongoing mental exercise.

Though not much of a wisecracker, Tony was articulate and incisive with language, as clever and quick with words as with everything else.

Steve could outpace him at a run, but that was pretty much the only place. Sometimes he couldn’t help but take off in a sprint, exult in the whistle of wind, the joy of pushing off in self-propulsion, and he knew it was the same with Tony’s intellect. But whatever endeavor and whosoever led, when one cut loose and sped ahead, they made sure to keep watch, circle back or slow down for the other.

He found though, that if he stopped thinking about it so much, words could be a lot like figuring the angles of his shield. They’d jumble and bounce around, rearrange themselves and rebound, returning as something he could pick up and toss back, something quirky or off the wall that would make Tony eye him sideways or share a chuckle.

Generally speaking, Steve was also immensely sure-handed, but he had his clumsy moments, his fool fumbles. His enhanced reflexes just gave him a better chance at recovering, say, for example, catching something before it could hit the floor.

On this particular occasion, he quashed that impulse, and let it fall.

It was sort of a click and sort of a thunk, and a tiny bit of a splash, and it caught Tony's attention, and then Steve caught Tony's eyes, and could tell from their round centers and narrowed corners that he knew Steve was up to something that'd be far from no good.

The water was perfectly hot, and the air was perfectly steamed, and their hair was plastered to their skulls, and Tony had just started working some lather through the dark strands that fanned from the scarred center line of his chest, and Steve's dick was starting to fill out just from touching his his tongue to the roof of his mouth to begin the sentence.

"So... I guess I dropped the soap."

Tony's hand stopped circling. He looked down; he looked up. He kept a straight face, mostly, but there were jumping-bean twitches at both of their lips.

"I guess you did." He bent his brow in sham contemplation. "So would you like to pick it up, or shall I?"

Steve grinned and threw the gauntlet like he had the glycerine. "Babe, is that really the best pickup line you got?"

He waited for no answer, sidled closer and stroked a hand down that rough patch where the lather was already rinsing away. The water had become hotter, and the stall steamier, as he made a show of a shimmy and slanted in to follow the same path with his mouth, and Tony's cock rose to meet him metaphorically halfway.

Sinking to a squat with one bent knee up and one to the shower floor, he closed his eyes. This was all by feel, the fill of his mouth with blunt flesh, the steadying of Tony's fingers at his scalp, and the water running down at a pace that, in this, was matched to them both.  

Steve slid his hands up Tony's thighs, wiry and tensile and strong, and slid his mouth along his curving shaft, suckling lightly and feeling him swell the rest of the way. He backed off to the head and flicked his tongue around the flare and into the notch underneath. Tony's groan echoed off the tile, and his fingers tightened, then his hands were gone. Steve felt him shift and snuck a look through slitted eyes.

Shoulders to the wall, Tony arched, with half-bent arms flexed, fisted, wrists crossing, held over his rolled-back head, his abs and ribs thrown into sharp relief.

Steve moaned at the sight, and between his own legs, in the background, he throbbed in time. He closed his eyes once more, bringing Tony’s clean, salty taste to the fore of his senses, warm droplets of water renewing on skin with each bob of his head, and hot beads of heavier fluid trickling across his tongue.

He stretched his lips and throat and let Tony sink in to the root, nose to the wet, coarse curls, another texture. Tony shuddered and gasped, and Steve stopped breathing and swallowed, tongue flattened to the thick ridge, held open, expanded, around Tony’s hard length.

He backed off, dragged in air, nuzzled soft-lipped at the head and tongued at the slit while he was there, opened up and engulfed him deep again. Tony’s thighs were trembling under his grip, and Steve’s head rose and fell to follow the undulations as he writhed.

The pound of his blood and the rasp of their breaths meshed and mixed with the ring of the water, hissing and sizzling in his ears, a white-noise percussion ensemble.

The volume was going up. He could hear himself growling low and short around his mouthful, and Tony's moans grew higher, interspersed with blasphemies and calls to Steve and God. Mid-cry, his voice broke and his hips stuttered, and they'd long since disestablished any need to be polite. Steve wrapped his hands up and behind, clenching into the meat of Tony's backside to pull him in and spur him to his peak. He sucked in and sealed, working the length of his shaft once, twice, and a half more, and Tony was there, his body seizing, convulsing, ragged groans pulsing in time with the spurts of his release.

Thumbs to Tony's hip bones, Steve eased him through it, caught his fizzing, sparking aftershocks, and let his softening cock slide free, little left for the rushing water to wash away. Second-hand sated, he leaned his head to rest in the crease of Tony’s groin, stroked down the back of one leg, and felt the lingering quivers of his knees.

Tony's hands came down to sculpt aqueducts into Steve’s hair, and Steve hummed. He tilted his chin to see Tony’s pleasure-smudged face, the drip of his watercolor lashes, the red splashes of his cheeks. Still kneeling before him, holding his eyes, he took himself in hand. His arousal, deferred, flared hot and bright, and a thick tremor rolled across his shoulders as he thumbed over the head.

Tony licked his lips and it streaked straight down, jumping to Steve like lighting to ground, like a small warp of space had linked Tony’s tongue direct to the tip of his dick.

He was primed, leaking and buzzing with it, rocking his hips into his fist to Tony's urgings: "C'mon, c'mon, gorgeous, just look at you,” and “Yeah, Steve, make it good. Show me just how you like it,” his voice as rough and tumble as if he’d been the one with the cock scrubbing the back of his tongue. Tony's filthy talk was a little embarrassing still, but a lot inflaming, always, because Tony did make him feel adventurous.

The water, too, made things rub and catch, more friction than slick, and the burn was doing it for him, building and driving him higher, wiring him through and through with whipcord silver. Panting and striving for it, his chest heaved, his fist flew, he hovered on the edge, hanging, holding, _ahhhh, AHHHH_ \-- and fractured, bursts of dark, heavy fire searing his veins and setting him aspin, striping dizzying slashes of blackened red in false vision on the backs of his lids.

Still so electric, he felt Tony caressing him as he came down. Over head, neck, and shoulders, a gentle rain of firm, knowing hands, the flow of soft-spoken words, and the water rinsing him clean of his mess. He sighed his satisfaction and made his legs straighten him back to his feet, and they sagged against one another. Their bodies were overheated, and they'd let off all their steam, and their hair was plastered to their skulls, and the rivulets running down their skin had turned sweat-brackish.

Tony's heart had slowed and Steve's pounded hard but rarely fast, so they were still matching pace. The air was rich, redolent of cucumber-lime-musk, a melange of their sex and the unretrieved soap-cake now shrunk to a sliver, and all this was the best, bar none.

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate title:  
> "And Soap it Goes"
> 
> Alternate-alternate title:  
> "Captain Handsoap"
> 
> (Were we really getting out of this without a couple more puns? No, my friends, we were not. Soap sue me. :P )


End file.
